“Do I hear a plan forming?”
“I should like to walk along the shore before breakfast.”
Mrs. Gardiner gave her an approving look.
“Then you shall. Though Edward will insist upon sending a footman with you.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“For once, I do not think I shall argue.”
“An encouraging development.”
“I only hope the poor man does not object to being dragged from his bed at dawn.”
“If he values his position,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “he will learn to admire sunrises.”
Chapter Five
The hour was early, and the sea air held the chill of morning still clinging to the breeze. Elizabeth stepped out from the little gate at the edge of the cottage garden and followed the narrow path down to the beach. James, the footman appointed to attend her, lingered a few paces behind. He had been instructed to accompany her at a respectful distance, and he did so with quiet diligence. Elizabeth scarcely noticed him.
The stillness astonished her. Even the waves, constant in their motion, did not roar but rolled with a low and measured sound, as if content to greet the shore without haste or force. The horizon melted into a sky softened by early light, and a pale mist hovered at the edge of sight. She drew in a breath of salt air as if it might clarify her thoughts.
She walked slowly along the damp sand where the tide had receded, her boots leaving a faint trace. She paused now and again to admire the pattern of shells left behind by the tide or to watch the seabirds wheel above the cliffs. The farther she moved from the village, the more profound the silence grew, broken only by the sea’s steady voice and the distant cry of gulls.
In time, she came upon a cluster of rocks that jutted out toward the surf. One in particular was broad and flat and placed just near enough to the water’s edge to enjoy its music without fear of a sudden soaking. With a pleased little smile, she climbed to it with care, seating herself upon its sun-warmed surface.From this spot, she could watch the gentle dance of water and light.
The breeze toyed with her ribbons. On impulse, she untied her bonnet and placed it beside her on the rock. The sea-breeze lifted her curls about her face, and for a long while she sat in silence, her gaze fixed upon the waves. Thoughts drifted through her mind without urgency. Her aunt’s story of the day before had moved her more than she had admitted aloud. There was a melancholy in the recollection of lives lost, and a quiet reverence in knowing one’s family had endured so much before her time. Yet now, at this very moment, she felt peace. There was no London clatter, no pressing obligation, no watchful eyes. No books to be tallied, no bickering sisters, no wary glances from Mama. Here, she need only be herself, and even that felt new.
Farther up the shore, tucked among the rocks where the land rose slightly from the sand, another solitary figure sat watching the sea. Mr. Darcy had arrived first and had chosen this spot precisely because it promised solitude. His thoughts, however, had not remained on the sea for long.
Instead, they drifted back to the dinner at Matlock House two evenings before. He had been invited again the night after the theatre, and had accepted without hesitation, though he scarcely knew why. The party had been smaller than usual, only Lord and Lady Matlock, their son, and himself. The formality of the occasion had been softened by familiarity, the candles set lower, the conversation unforced.
It had begun as such dinners always did, with remarks on the weather, on the thinning crowds in town, and on the business anticipated in Brinmouth. Darcy had spoken little, content to listen, until at last his aunt’s attention had settled upon him with quiet intent.
“You appeared fatigued the other evening,” said Lady Matlock. “More so than the theatre alone would account for, I think.”
“You are not a man to advertise unease, Fitzwilliam,” said Lord Matlock. “If something has occurred, we ought to know it.”
Darcy did not answer immediately.
“There was an incident at Lady Tilstone's gathering,” said Richard. “A rather determined attempt arranged between mother and daughter. Darcy was the object of it, and had I not arrived when I did, the evening might have concluded very differently.”
“You mean to say she sought to entrap him.”
“In every sense.”
Darcy inclined his head.
“Richard is being charitable. It was his intervention that spared me greater embarrassment.”
“Such tactics ought to be beneath any woman who pretends to breeding,” said Lord Matlock.
“One would hope so.”
The subject was allowed to drop. Yet even now, seated upon the shore, Darcy remembered what came next.
Lady Matlock had been quiet for some moments, turning her wineglass slowly between her fingers, her gaze resting not upon the table but upon the mantel beyond.
